


A Heap of Broken Images

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-25
Updated: 2008-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in five broken parts, based on T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland". The Doctor deals with the aftermath of the funeral pyre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heap of Broken Images

**Author's Note:**

> Each section was inspired by a quote from the corresponding part, and the exact word count (according to Word) of that section. Also a bit of an experiment, in that whatever blurb came to mind upon writing is what you read here (with the grammar bits fixed, hopefully.) Enjoy.
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

I. **The Burial of the Dead**  
 _I will show you fear in a handful of dust_

Alone, he clambers to the funeral site and gathers the dirt and ash in his hands. Over and over, he rocks back and forth. His tears make mud out of the refuse. From the mud, he will mold a man. The man will be the shadow of the lover and enemy he once knew. He will be nothing like him, but at least the Doctor will no longer be alone. At least it is something.

Not all of his tears make mud. Some fall to the ground. Some stain his ash-covered face. He can still look down at his hands and see dust. 

He’s afraid of the dust.

The dust that was once Gallifrey. The last son of Gallifrey is dust. (He severed his blood ties when he turned his back on his home.) The last son of Gallifrey is dead. (Or was it that they were the same son? Was it that they were half-sons each, uncaring of the past legacy and eager for the future generation? They made one another. They completed the other. Halves of wholes and holes in halves. You are not alone.) 

The dust which was one Daleks. He can see them and remember the way they felt when She decimated them, when he took that memory from her. He recognizes a gasp of fright and pain and fear and _life_ and pushes that dust away. He turns his back on it. He calls it wrong. Still, it follows him.

The mud of the man that he once loved and hated cakes on his hands, his cheeks, his neck, wherever he has strewn it. He will plant the corpse in the garden and the garden will grow the man, the body. He wants his body, his soul, his mind, his everything. He wants him back. Is that too much to ask?

Rassilon, is that too much to ask?

Eyes cast skyward, nighttime, stars, Kasterbourous, the Devastation. A man will have many homes in a lifetime, but only one home in his heart. Or hearts. Or cardiovascular system. Or bicardiovascuular system. They have both been both. They always had to do things together, one-up each other, try the same things. They lived together once. They shared a home. They were each other’s home. The Master was his heart, his hearts, his one true home. Now his home is dust. It is ash. It is mud. It burned. From his hand, it burned. History repeats, and painfully so. The Doctor sits in the pile of nothing and rocks back and forth and back and forth, and cries to himself. 

If he eats the dust, will the corpse grow inside of him? Could he pluck him out from himself and let him live again?

He is afraid, so afraid. Once, he was the Last, and then he wasn’t. He’s the Last again, and it scares him. 

It tastes of ash and mud and dust, and nothing of the being whose extraordinary mind was held within its shell. He weeps some more and refuses to leave until the first sprout shoots from the ground. 

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gallifrey. Koschei. Master. Home. Gone. Gone. Gone. 

He who has died is gone. His body has been disposed of. He wonders if he should have buried him beneath the soil. But then, he would not have the dust to cling to. He breathes him in for the second time since his pyre, and wonders why everything happens for a reason. 

What is the reason today? Can you tell him? Will you?

 

II. **A Game of Chess**  
 _HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME_

Jack contacts him a year later. A drink. A wedding. The promise of stories. He declines. 

Martha calls him every now and again. Eggshell or ivory? How about bridesmaids? You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you? He avoids the question.

Jack calls him again, promising a drink and dancing. Maybe a wedding if he plays his cards right. He declines. 

He finally makes it to Barcelona, alone, and doesn’t even laugh at the dogs with no noses. In fact, he frowns at them, and orders a double. He never does say a double of what. It’s just a double. It tastes good enough, and it’s blue. He gets one of those little umbrellas and he twirls it in his fingers. 

No, thank you, Captain. Saving the world. You know how busy that keeps a man. 

When’s the wedding, Mrs. Milligan? Of course I’ll be there. 

No, Jack. Not today. 

He watches the people of Barcelona filter in and out of the small establishment. They are interesting enough. They are boring enough. He hunches his shoulders and keeps drinking as the bartender keeps offering. He remembers he hasn’t converted his credit chips. 

Doctor? 

Doctor?

Shut up, Jack. 

Leave me alone, Martha. 

When the glass breaks, it's only a small cut. He stares at his blood, the only blood of its kind. In the whole wide universe, he is the only one that can bleed like this. He knows he bleeds prettily. Someone told him that once, someone that cared enough about him to watch the way he bled. Blood is life. To love the blood is to love the life force. To take of the blood . . . 

What are you doing?  
What do you think?  
Is it . . .?  
Do you want to?  
Can I?

The knot in his stomach twists up into his hearts and he no longer enjoys the color blue with little umbrellas. He rips the paper until it becomes a skeleton of sticks and wire. He throws it to the floor and leaves with a flourish of his coat. 

Do you want to?  
Can I?

Hello, Jack! Yes. What? Why not? No. No. No. Yes. The wedding? When is it? Don’t tell Martha. I want it to be a surprise.

He shows up in a plain black suit with a plain white shirt and a plain black tie. He puts on his red trainers and best smile and waltzes into the reception to see Martha’s shocked face. 

They talk. They dance. They exchange the little niceties. He avoids Jack and his team. He heads straight for the bar. 

I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what that is. Do you know where I got this suit? It’s a nice suit. She tailored it for me. It was a little big, in some places. You can’t even seen the blood anymore. The bullet hole is gone, too. You can’t see it, can you? Tell me you can’t see the bullet hole. 

_It’s only a bullet. Just regenerate_.

No. I wasn’t shot. Maybe I was, though. I can’t remember. What do you mean you don’t have any banana daiquiris? 

You can make some at my place. Jack. Jack grabs his arm. 

You promised me a dance. 

He never did. Ever. 

Nice suit. 

No. 

Hurry. You can make it now, if you run. If you run really fast, Theta, you can make it back to me. Come. I’m waiting for you. Just run! To the TARDIS, quickly! I’m here! I’m waiting! I’m alive! Doctor! Doctor, come back. 

Hurry, please. 

It’s time. 

He gives Martha her present — You didn’t! No! Shouldn’t have . . . Doctor! I love it! It’s gorgeous! Mum, Tish, come see! 

The sky was made of diamonds. It should have been, at least. He isolated and captured one of them, encasing it in a beautiful pair of earrings. He made them. They looking stunning on her. She looked stunning. Happy. 

Jack was happy, too. 

Hurry, please.

He is tugged somewhere that isn’t the TARDIS, and feels a ring upon his finger. 

A ring.   
The ring.   
His ring. 

Hurry, please.

It’s

His ring taps against the railing, mimicking the drumbeat.

Time.

He wants him back so badly, he creates his own fantasies: The Master is waiting for him where he was buried, where he was burned. When they embrace, they will burn all over again. The flames will be of creation, not destruction. They will (re)create a life together.

 

III. **The Fire Sermon**  
 _But at my back in a cold blast I hear / The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear._

He tells himself it is set to random when he steps out of the doors and lands on Malcassairo. The conglomerate is still thriving, so he knows there is no danger. (He is disappointed, slightly.)

When he stands on the cliff (where Jack was on his right, Martha his left, just a year or so ago) a cold wind picks up and howls behind him. 

Someone is walking over his grave.

A smile cracks his face, laughter rumbles in his belly, as he skips the steps two at a time, in search of food or fire. He will find both, for what is one without the other? 

Someone is dancing over his grave.

He screams across the chasm and no one bothers to look at him. He screams and he screams until something inside of him tells him to stop. Something inside of him holds him. Soothes him. His inner voice is not his own voice. It is also not inside. 

When he turns around, no one is there. 

He tells himself it is still set to random when he steps out of his ship and stands in front of the doors of Whitehall.

Consider: his hand on the wooden door, his knees threatening to buckle, he can feel him, he can feel him, just beyond the door with his own hand pressed against the barrier. 

Consider: his hands on his knees as he kneels on a soft bed and waits, and watches, and whispers; he can feel him remembering, he can feel him pondering. 

Don’t cross the lines. Someone warned that once. Or maybe he read it somewhere. Saw it in a movie. What does it matter now when everyone else is gone? He can set his own rules.

Those _are_ his rules. 

Whitehall does not get smaller as he walks away, but it looks like it. 

If a body looks like it has burnt, does it necessarily have to be gone?

Tell me you have a plan. Tell me that was part of your plan!

He walks into the empty TARDIS again, switching off (on) the random setting, and goes wherever. It’s a blue planet. It’s a dark planet. When the wind howls, he imagines it is laughing at him. When the ground shakes, he imagines the bones are angry. It hurts. This planet is angry with him. It is abandoned. It is nothing. He must have destroyed it at one point. Or will destroy it. Maybe today. He’s here now, and, in the end, isn’t that what he does? He destroys everything he comes across. 

He is not Shiva. There is no benevolence in his soul, no duty, no creation, only death, pain, sorrow, dust, ash, and mud. He is a walking straw man, a walking stuffed man. He is not a man at all. 

There is a shadow walking beside him that is not his own. He lets it follow because he needs the company. The shadow belongs to a dead man, but it is not him. When he turns around, it always disappears. 

He is not Brahma. He did not bring life to this shadow, to this mud man. There is no life to give him. 

When he taps his feet on the ground, it is in a familiar rhythm. It is not ingrained in him. He deliberately does it, onetwothreefour, as if he can invoke back the creature he lost. Rhythms have power. Names have power. 

If he were Vishnu, the world would weep. 

He cried into the flames. He remembers as the sun burns the horizon of the dark planet. He cried. No one else did. They bowed their heads and mourned for a dead Prime Minister, a dead husband, a dead thing. No one mourned for a dead Time Lord. No one mourned for a dead adversary/enemy, friend/lover, other.

Jack mourned for him, the Doctor. He had at least acknowledged there must have been some pain the passing. Martha, too, though how could she ever understand? There had been a hand on his shoulder and a promise to keep everyone else at bay. Do what you need to do. (Just don’t bring him back.) 

He didn’t listen to the last part, because that is what he needed to do.

With every gust of wind, he hears the Master laughing. He has won.   
For now.

Martha keeps calling him. A diamond on her finger. Husbands and wives and husbands without wives (or wives without husbands; they never agreed who was who)

Martha keeps calling.

He keeps grinning, feeling the ghost of fingertips along his nape (It’s just the wind, darling. Don’t be frightened.) 

It’s only the wind.

He runs through the morning storm on the planet. The rains pelts his body. The wind makes him shiver. The fire on the horizon grows as the sun rises, the lighting strikes, and thunder booms like drums. He smiles, running through the storm. It’s telling him all its secrets. 

Martha keeps calling. (That’s not a secret.)

I’m here. (Yes, I know, but where?)

Keep looking. (I am!)

It’s so very cold. (I am, too.)

And lonely. (Yes.)

I — (I know.)

The sky is on fire.

 

IV. **Death By Water**  
 _Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you._

To be young again, the Master delighted. To be young again.

The flames crackling, splintering, moaning, aching, sparkling like a billion stars living, dying. 

To be young again, handsome, and strong, and you remember those days don’t you, Doctor? Look at us, young again. Well, I am, at least. You shouldn’t leave extra appendages lying around. 

Handsome and tall, the Doctor watches the Master burn. 

To be young again.

 

V. **What the Thunder Said**  
 _your heart would have responded / Gaily, when invited, beating obedient / To controlling hands_

The Master’s teeth breaking skin on his shoulder, his spine rubbing raw against the metal, his nails gouging lines in the Master’s back, the Master’s hips assaulting his body; the filthiest of words elicited from their mouths, curses in a hundred languages, and every last syllable of their true names. 

Not the blood, not the pain, not the age or the weakness, but this, this last display of such trust and familiarity — Tomorrow must be different, for today can only exist now. What was once can never be again. 

No one knows, not the Toclafane, not Lucy, not Jack, not another living soul: He wasn’t always old and decrepit. 

Together, they burn as flames. Fire and ice and a thousands suns. What light they give off. They glow. They love. They hate. 

Passion. 

The Master and the Doctor are shed as easily as their clothes. Dancing quietly, they remove Theta and Koschei, as well. 

Their names complete each other in a circular pattern, the enunciations of the endings and beginnings blending into one other. Where one ends, the other begins. It happens either way. 

When they kiss, starlight exudes from behind their eyes. Their lips moves slowly (hungrily) as their hands wander of their own accord. 

I loved you once, do you remember?

When they do something that they once called making love, they are careful not to admit to anything that their bodies (their hearts) have already said. Their eyes that are now each other’s eyes, their hands that are now each other’s hands, lock. 

I remember. 

Who pushes inside whom depends on the day, on their mood, on whose name comes first. It never really matters. The end result is the same. 

They try to hurt each other. They try to heal each other. 

It all depends on the day. 

Master. Doctor. Koschei. Theta. Circles. 

Their hearts respond to their hands and their hands respond to their hearts. 

In love, they burn. 

They burn. 

Burn. 

When the Doctor wakes, he has aged painlessly in his sleep. They never speak of it. 

I can’t decide whether you should live or die oh you’ll prob'ly go to heaven please don’t hang your head and cry no wonder why my heart feels dead inside it’s cold and hard and

Lucy was pretty.

So here it comes the sounds of drums here come the drums here come the drums baby baby baby you are 

Your best friend agreed. 

The Doctor, he can remember the way the Master kissed him. Through all the regenerations, he can remember this the most. He remembers the sweet pecks on the cheek (under the shade of their tree), the hungry kisses (up against the console), and the joining of mouths that seemed somehow more (on a secret bed in a high-flying castle.) 

He can remember every kiss.

When he remembers, he only remembers the taste of ash, of dust, of mud and tears and fire and flame and 

 

He stumbles back into the TARDIS, straight from the reception he remained at for only a few moments and tries to catch his breath. 

I’m here, Master. I’ve made it back. I’m here.

He breathes and breathes until he is dizzy, and falls to his knees. She closes her doors and dims her lights. It is just the two of them. 

He tastes ash. He feels so old, too old to be this young. 

_Regenerate. Please! Just regenerate._

I love you.

I forgive you.

He should’ve — He could’ve — He would’ve — 

He materializes inside the Valiant and curls his knees up to his chest, in their room. the one they shared sometimes. He whispers to himself. Mimics. Remembers. He tastes ash. He feels the flames licking his body, their body. 

The Valiant floats, unaware of its old friend now occupying its empty rooms. In the distance, a storm begins. Thunder rumbles. Water falls over rocks. 

Silver branches reach toward an orange sky as

A ring. His ring.  
A suit. His suit.   
A name. His name. 

The Doctor realizes if there was one thing the Master could never ever do, it was die. 

He stands as the door opens, and the man of mud and dust and ash walks through. 

I remember you from days of old, from yesterday, hours ago. Do you remember me?

He no longer tastes of ash.

He tastes of the Master/Doctor/Koschei/Theta/Circles. Fire. Home. 

A beginning/ending.


End file.
